


Turning from a whisper

by Rattle



Series: Will Power [3]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cooking, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Food, Food Porn, you know the drill by now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29566509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rattle/pseuds/Rattle
Summary: She loves food, she loves to cook, she loves Sebastian.
Relationships: Sebastian/Female Player (Stardew Valley)
Series: Will Power [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2158782
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	Turning from a whisper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nevergreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevergreen/gifts).



> FOOMD

A thing they both like: food. 

Her belief that not a single meal should ever be skipped is unshakable. Her talent for finding ingredients that don’t want to be found is magical. Her journeys into the forest when it’s berry season, with a jar in tow, always end with the jar almost empty, and her lips stained with berry juice. 

Some people think he barely eats. They used to fuss over him and pinch his skin, unprompted, and told him of how thin he was, as if he didn’t know, as if he wanted their attention or asked for it in the first place. The truth is, Sebastian likes food and he likes to eat. Very much so. Except, most of the food he gobbles up seems to disappear into some kind of a black hole instead of making his ribs less protruding, or his cheeks less hollow. But who cares anymore? She says she loves him just the way he is, and nothing else matters. 

He didn’t mind his mother’s cooking, but it always felt to him like mum cooked for quick results and not for the process of it, having other things on her mind. Things like these table tops, for example. Or this wooden board that’s allegedly perfect for chopping vegetables. 

Mum also never took requests. Mum never asked, “What would you like, sweetie?” He understood and did not complain. Which didn’t mean he never yearned for more. 

A thing he cannot do, not even, probably, to save his life: cooking.

He’s able to heat up something without burning it, and that’s a craft that took years to perfect. He’s able to boil an egg, but when he does, it’s never the way he likes it. Hardboiled when he wants it softboiled, and vice versa. Similar fate is met by each and every toast. Sebastian thinks it’s a curse. He’s learned to live with it. He doesn’t like eggs anymore. 

He can make coffee, so he does now, all the time, for both of them.

Everything else is a minefield of injured fingers, exploding tin cans and chunks burnt to a crisp. He’s repeatedly tried to help her cook, but was only getting in the way, although she never told him so and never berated him for trying. Still, he stopped during the first week of them living together. He stood aside, leaning on one of the table tops, and watched her stir and stir and stir a liquid, with stubbornness and dedication; And in how it thickened into a creamy sauce without him noticing or being able to pinpoint the exact moment of transformation, Sebastian saw himself, and the way she’d battled his doubt and self-deprecation for months, and waited, and prevailed.

“I love you,” he told her. She took the sauce off the stovetop, smiled, and answered. 

He wakes up late and squints at the sun reaching its grabby fingers between the thick curtains she’d hung for him. 

Sebastian still feels residue of triumphant pride: last night, he fucked her to hoarseness and to sleep, and then went back to his computer to finish work, and did. 

She’s not around, but he can hear the swishing of a scythe and the muffled sounds of a portable radio coming through the open windows. 

Sebastian slept through breakfast, and it’s still not lunchtime.

But in the middle of the table, covered by a transparent cake dome, is a sandwich. There is a square piece of paper right next, and on it, his name, with a tiny black heart dotting the i. 

Technically, it's a whole loaf, albeit small, cut lengthwise and stuffed to the brim with crumbly goat cheese, greens and some sauce he doesn’t recognise. 

Sebastian puts his unfinished coffee away, removes the lid, lifts the blessed thing with both hands and starts to eat. All downhill from there. 

It’s so obscenely delicious and the sounds he’s making while taking large bites so gluttonous and _indecent_ , that soon he starts to feel guilty. He starts to feel as if it’s not just him eating a submarine sandwich, it’s him cheating on her with a submarine sandwich. 

But... it was her who made it. For him. His guilt subsides. 

Things she loves doing the most: cooking, feeding people and, Sebastian would very much like to believe, him. 

Friends come to visit her. He usually hides in his room when they come, and works, just like he used to do in his _previous_ life, except, this time, he knows that no one is going to judge him for it. No one is going to sneer and proclaim, “Look who’s finally decided to join us!” if he steps out. No one will cough nervously and whisper, “Dad, stop.” And if they do, she will no longer invite them over. And they wouldn’t want that at all, oh no. 

Sometimes he does step out, to sneak into the kitchen cautiously. To say hello but, mainly, to peek at what’s on their plates. 

Leah smiles at him over a masterpiece of a salad. The latter pretends to be healthy, but it’s drenched in oil and tangy pomegranate sauce, with caramelized nuts adorning the surface. Leah smiles again, takes a deep breath, and a fork. 

In his clean Sunday shirt, but very much barefoot, Willy sits straight, a bowl of curry, a platter of breaded and fried fish bites and a chunk of foil-baked sturgeon before him. He looks from one to the other and contemplates the big questions and the toughest choices. His knife is poised to strike but lingers. Sebastian does not bother him. 

Alex receives a large arrangement of quail and chicken deviled eggs and eats them carelessly, messily, dipping each into a bowl of garlic butter, licking it off his fingers. He tells her of how he plans to go out on a date with someone later tonight, and Sebastian silently approaches and moves the garlic butter away from him. Alex is puzzled and somewhat stunned. In his confusion, he eats another deviled egg, almost without chewing. 

Emily nods sideways at the hand-stitched bib she'd brought. It has a cartoonish frog embroidered on it, and it’s a belated birthday gift, judging by the frilly card attached. “Thank you,” Sebastian says. Emily nods again but is not able to respond with words, because her mouth is full of steamed dumplings, and she is already reaching for more. 

The kitchen smells like brandy, mustard and the sea. Elliott, with a clean napkin tied around his neck, picks small pieces of stewed lobster tail with a knife and fork, and carefully puts them into his mouth, and makes _noises_. Sebastian can see that he yearns to rush, but dares not, with his impeccable manners getting in the way. _Come on, dig in,_ he wants to say, but instead arches his eyebrows and asks, “Good?” Elliott closes his eyes for a second and hums incoherently, and then looks like he’s about to cry. “Yeah,” Sebastian says. He gets it, he really does. 

Sam comes over on a Saturday afternoon, and she is somewhere out in the garden, and dinner is an hour away, at least. 

“Hungry,” Sam complains, lifting a lid off something that’s slowly bubbling on the stove, and sniffs with relish and an ‘m-m-m!’. “I think the soup is ready!”

Sebastian comes to with a start. “Soup?!”

They get spoons, then get a taste, then get two large bowls, then get stuffed. 

It’s the best tomato soup Sebastian’s ever eaten. It’s tart, but not too tart to wound the roof of his mouth. Sweet, but not too sweet to be considered a dessert wannabe. And just spicy enough for pepper to slightly tickle the insides of his nose. Sam asks for seconds and then wipes the bowl clean with a chunk of bread. Afterwards, they sit and groan a chaotic duet when she enters the kitchen and approaches the stove. 

There is a pause before she asks, “Alright, which one of you ate the pizza sauce?”

A silence follows, and in it, Sam’s voice, detached and mournful, yelps, “Pizza?!” and then she laughs. Sebastian feels stupid. He also feels stupid in love. 

A thing they both hate: crowds. 

It’s the day of the luau, smack-dab in the middle of summer, and Sebastian wakes up tangled in his sheets and sweaty, and punches out the alarm clock. She won’t say a thing about it if he doesn’t go, she'd understand, but he senses she’d still be a little bit sad without him, and Sebastian doesn’t want to make her sad. 

In the kitchen it smells of chopped fruit, and of freshly ground coffee, and of her. 

The house suddenly feels very empty without her, and there’s a hollow feeling inside of him, too. On the table there’s a note saying that she’s gone to the beach early, to help prepare the buffet. And also, that she loves him. The hollow feeling slowly dissipates. 

Sebastian showers under tepid water and wonders if he should make it cold instead. He then spends almost a quarter of an hour rummaging the drawers for his violet trunks before finding them laundered, folded and laid neatly on a chair in the bedroom. He puts them on along with a white shirt. He hates this dumb tradition, he hates going to the beach on sunny days, but he loves her. 

It’s not as hot outside but he’s still annoyed. Sebastian alternates between walking slowly when he thinks of the crowd of people on the beach awaiting him, and picking up his pace when he thinks of her being among them. 

On the stairwell he looks around, his heart contracting almost painfully. Too many. Mum is dancing and doesn’t notice him. Sam waves at him from a pier, though, and then falls, arms spread wide, back into the water. There is a giant pot bubbling on the fire, adding to the heat. Gus is waving a fan frantically, chasing flies off food laid on tables surrounding it. She’s nowhere to be seen. 

Sebastian approaches one of the tables and his eyes do a quick search until he pinpoints the basin-sized bowl. Silently and without looking at anyone or anything else, he fills a paper plate with fruit salad. Every single bit of fruit on it, she grew herself, she picked herself, she washed and cleaned and peeled and chopped and mixed and put it here for everyone to enjoy, and yet everyone but the flies is choosing to ignore it?! 

Today he’s not skipping breakfast. 

He eats on the go, maneuvering between well-wishers, silent and resolute, and, as he leaves the most crowded area behind and drops the paper plate and fork into a bin by Elliott’s cottage, Sebastian realizes that he forgot his sunscreen. He’s probably going to burn to a crisp. No, not probably. Inevitably. He stops dead in his tracks, fuming, then a hand emerges from nowhere and grabs his shoulder. He’s pulled into a kiss. “You taste like strawberries,” she says, and kisses him again. In a few seconds she reaches down into a bag discarded on the sand and produces a small plastic bottle. Sebastian sighs. 

Sometimes he still has trouble believing he deserves her, and this is one of those times. She sits him on a towel, and takes his shirt off, and rubs sunscreen into his shoulders and back slowly, until he’s a mellow, soft and pliant mess. 

_I love you,_ he thinks to her.

“I love you,” she says. 

He’s fine with staying here until that stupid ceremony, or even until later. He’s more than fine with her arms around him, her body shielding him from the sun, her nose poking his ear. But she, evidently, has other plans. Maybe she’s thinking, remembering how difficult this is for him, because she takes Sebastian by the hand and leads him further away, over a rickety bridge, to a wall of large rocks, a few of which stand nearly as high as he, and one, even higher. These look almost like statues. Or like a half-crumbled dolmen. 

They could hide in here. They could sit, their backs against the stones, and dip their toes into the waves, and wait out the ceremony. 

Except that’s not what she wants. She pulls him behind the highest rock and pins him to it, and kisses him again, and then she’s on her knees, and his violet trunks make a slow, sliding descent down his legs. 

“I want to stuff my mouth with your cock,” she says. “Right. Now. Please, may I?”

Sebastian hisses, instantly flying up to arousal. The way she openly says these things, _obscene_ things, should scare him, make him wince. It never does. Instead, well… 

But there’s people nearby. _People_ , Sebastian thinks, and panic rises along with his cock. Someone might decide to go on a leisurely stroll, someone might see him here, panting and flushed, with his raging boner out in front of his wife’s face. Or, if he so much as simply nods right now, with his raging boner in his wife’s mouth, maybe even throat deep, because this is how it usually ends. Sam might swim past and see, and this last one is not as horrible, but Sebastian still doesn’t care for all the nudges and jabs and eyebrow twitching that would follow. 

But her eyes are dark as she looks up at him, and her lips are slightly open, and he knows the feeling so well by now, and he wants it so much. 

Sebastian nods. 

She wastes no time on teasing, she pounces on him, mouth open wide and hungry _,_ taking him all the way in, and out, and in and _oh, fuck._

For a while he’s torn between surrendering to the sensation and staying alert, too alert, listening intently for other people’s voices. They’re hushed, but they’re nearby. There’s food on their minds, but how long will it stay on their minds before they decide to go look for entertainment or seashells? 

She doesn’t stop or slow down, and it feels like there’s a well calculated rhythm in the way she sucks him off, and an astonishing, brutal efficiency. In, out, in, deep, so deep, with fingers tracing, squeezing, helping. _How is she not choking._ She wants him to capitulate. She wants him to come. 

And he’s about to. He’s about to, miraculously, stop caring, stop listening, stop hearing, stop concentrating on anything else but her mouth, her tongue, her fingers. It all starts to fade, and he throws his head back against the rock. _No one will see. It’s fine. No one will know. This feels so good._

“Sebastian? Where is that boy... Why does he have to be so—”

The whole of his body flinches. Oh God. Oh God, _please, not you, anyone but you_. 

But instead of pulling away, she speeds up, barely even an inch of space or a second of time for her to take a breath. 

And he should probably stop her, should move away. Can’t. _Please be advised,_ _the Zuzu city express will not be making a stop at Pelican town. What?! Oh God this feels so good._ His heart is pounding and his knees are on the verge of giving out. 

Another voice, even nearer. “It’s fine, dad, he probably went home. Let’s just—”

 _Yeah, I’m nearly home,_ Sebastian thinks, biting into his wrist, nails of his free hand scraping sand off the rock, and then scraping at her cheek, and then they’re tangled in her hair, and then they curl and pull her in on pure instinct.

There are no more voices and no one emerges from behind the rocks, although he keeps expecting them to, he keeps expecting it to happen even as he comes deep into her throat, spasmodically, bucking his hips, nearly wailing, nearly biting his own hand bloody. 

Turns out, there were quite a lot of noises reaching him from the luau still, he simply stopped paying attention to them at some point. 

She licks her lips, and they’re both breathless, and he loves her so much, and he hates people, but she's not _people_. 

“Sebastian? Oh I think he went over there.”

Hell’s bells. 

He pulls up his trunks and walks out from behind the rock, with her, still hiding, and stares right into Demetrius’s eyes. And stares. And stares. His stepfather doesn’t say a thing, but blinks first and then walks away. 

Elliott is still there, too, and he’s oblivious and happy. 

She is standing behind Sebastian's now, adjusting her swimsuit. Elliott smiles at him, and then at her. “The food is simply amazing today! Did you like it?”

She nods, stepping sideways, then bites at the tip of her thumb and smiles around it, glancing only briefly at Sebastian. _I loved it,_ she whispers to him, barely audible, once Elliott turns away. 

Sebastian wants to take her by the hand and lead her home now. He’s hungry, but he likes to eat in peace, with no one else around. 

So he does. 

**Author's Note:**

> Attempted to combine two prompts, “more food porn please bro” and “something semi-public with the risk of getting caught”.  
> Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
